


Two Trees

by canis_m



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animagus, Christmas Fluff, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Elves, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 17:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: A pair of Christmas trifles from brighter timelines: 1. Book of Spells and 2. Kitty Credence.  The second follows on the first in spirit only.





	1. Chapter 1

"Step away," said Graves tautly, wand in hand. 

Credence dropped the gingerbread wizard--complete with frosted pointy hat--and snatched his fingers back. His whole body recoiled, as if the cookie or the command had singed. It was enough to make Graves regret the need for sharpness. The gingerbread wizard landed, still intact, among its fellows: thick squares of fudge and divinity, glittering sugar cookies and pillowy meringues. 

The goodies looked like house-elf work, but Graves didn't recognize the plate. Wand steady, he stalked across the sitting room, toward the sofa and the table where the cookies sat. 

"You bring these home?" 

Credence's shoulders jerked a negative. "They just...appeared. While I was helping Miss Goldstein at the soup kitchen." He flushed in confused distress. "I thought you must've sent them."

Graves shook his head. He approached the plate slowly and aimed his wand.

_"Specialis Revelio."_

The air above the cookies shimmered briefly. The ripples dissipated without further effect. "Detects hexes," added Graves, for Credence's benefit. "But it's not foolproof." He tried again. _"Venenum Revelio."_

Still nothing--no sign that the cookies contained anything shadier than sugar. Credence edged nearer.

"If you didn't send them..."

Graves narrowed his eyes. "We'll figure out who did."

*

No Graves family fireplace was on the Floo network, for security's sake, but on the mantel sat a small golden bell, one whose twin would ring at Black Rock House, in the kitchen that was Tibby's domain. Minutes after Graves rang it, she Apparated into the sitting room. She peered at Graves, as if trying to recollect whether he'd been dropped on his head as an infant, and whether the damage had rendered him unfit for his line of work.

"Of course Tibby made the cookies. Who else would do it?"

Graves supposed cursed gingerbread wasn't Grindelwald's style, nor was paranoia in the spirit of the season. And Grindelwald was on the lam somewhere across the pond. But years had passed--decades?--since Tibby last delivered Christmas cookies, and it'd been a long week at work. 

He rubbed his brow. "The goblin mob, trying to put me out of commission?" 

Tibby sniffed, dusting undetectable flecks of flour from her apron. "As if your lady mother's wards would let riffraff into the house."

She straightened the plate of cookies, then turned to eye the room and its abject lack of holiday decoration. At the country house there'd be garlands on the mantel and banisters, a ribboned wreath on every outward-facing door. To say nothing of the Christmas tree, resplendent, harvested each year from the surrounding forest. Tibby's ears twitched. 

"Tibby had a dreadful hunch that Mister Credence might not get any cookies at all, if it were left up to Master Graves. And Tibby wasn't wrong, was she? Hmm?"

Grimacing, Graves sank onto the sofa in defeat. He pocketed his wand. "No, she wasn't."

Tibby's look turned wily. "There might be more cookies, as well as cake, if only certain persons would come home for Christmas--"

"'Might,' she says." Graves spoke sidelong to Credence, who was hovering near the plate of cookies, hands curled at his sides. Inspired, Graves reached for a meringue and stuffed it into his mouth. Important to set a good example. "As if she doesn't bake enough to feed an army every year. You ought to see the Yule log."

Tibby clasped her wrinkled fingers. "The Yule log, yes! And Mistress Graves would be so pleased--"

"If the criminal element cooperates, Tibby," said Graves, before she could gain momentum. "We'll see. I'll send word when I have a better idea."

Tibby glared at him, unimpressed, but the smile she turned on Credence crinkled warmly. "Help yourself to the cookies, please, Mister Credence," she crooned. "Tibby will be happy to bring more. Now, Tibby must be off to finish the roast!"

Gathering her skirts, she Disapparated with a pop, before either Graves or Credence could so much as cough a thank you. The fireplace crackled.

"You heard her," said Graves at last. He nodded sideways at the plate. "Eat up."

Credence shuffled. "It'll spoil my dinner," he murmured, but he reached again for the gingerbread wizard he'd chosen before. After a hesitation, he raised it to his mouth, then nibbled cautiously at the tip of its pointy hat. A look of concentrated pleasure came over his face, the one he often wore when tasting something hitherto denied him. Something that proved delicious. "I wasn't sure if wizards celebrated Christmas."

Graves averted his eyes, if belatedly, from the nibbling. "Sure we do," he said, clearing his throat. "Some of us, anyway. After a fashion."

Credence settled into the nearer armchair, tucking his feet up on the seat, and went on dismantling the gingerbread wizard, limb by limb. A smidge of white icing glinted on his lip. Graves tried not to watch, even covertly, and failed only in part. His eye fell on the plate of cookies: no gingerbread witches there, only wizards. Well, the baker knew his taste. He turned his attention to the sitting room, seeing it anew through house-elf eyes. Its state of drab undress seemed moderately shameful. 

"Aren't there spells on the house?" Credence was asking. "To keep people from Apparating in?" 

"Solid ones," said Graves. "Tibby's immune."

"Because she's an elf?"

"That's right."

The gingerbread wizard lost his head, and Credence chewed the last bite solemnly. "A Christmas elf." 

It startled a grin out of Graves. "This time of year, she is." And she was right: they were overdue for some holiday cheer, if only for Credence's sake. Graves doubted Christmases at the New Salem Church had been what you might call festive. If he remembered his history, the Puritans had tried to ban Christmas in Massachusetts, right before they'd started burning witches at the stake.

"We ought to put up a tree in here," he said, with heathen relish. "Don't you think?"

Credence blinked at him as he made for the window. When Graves opened it a crack, a cold swirl of December wind gusted in. Spreading his hand, Graves gave a silent summons.

He didn't have long to wait: wreaths hung from plenty of neighborhood doors in Gramercy Park. A sprig of evergreen came flying out of the evening darkness. Graves caught it in his open hand and slid the window shut. He set the fir twig on the floor. Stepping back, he drew his wand, gave it an upward flick, and murmured a spell.

The twig shimmered with a golden-green glow. Springing upright, it grew with magically uncanny speed, thickening in girth as branches sprouted from every side. Fresh green needles unfurled, and the twig's stem fattened to a modest trunk.

When its growth slowed, the new fir tree stood no taller than Graves' chest. He gave another tilt of his wand, encouraging, and the tree burgeoned upward and out. It stretched and spread until the tip of its highest bough almost touched the ceiling. Balsam scent filled the room, sylvan and crisp.

Graves cast a charm to hold the tree in place, then stood back to survey his handiwork. Not bad for a wizard with no discernible green thumb. He glanced at Credence, who was watching from the armchair, eyes bright. 

"Could use some lights," said Graves. "Care to do the honors?"

Credence scrambled upright. He drew his wand, then paused. "What spell…?" 

Bland-faced, Graves returned to the sofa and reached for a piece of divinity. "What spell do you think?"

Credence looked uncertain only for an instant. He lowered his chin, then turned to regard the tree. He'd learned to moderate his Wand-Lighting Charm, but could still produce a wild spangle of floating sparkles at will. He drew a fortifying breath, the way he often did before a cast. He said nothing aloud. The birch wand flicked.

White glimmers bloomed among the branches, strewn stars in a deep green crown. 

Graves smiled at the sight. _"Fianto Duri,"_ he murmured, with a sweep of his wand, and all the lights stayed on.


	2. Chapter 2

They left the tree up even after Christmas. It was ineffably good, Credence had discovered, to change into cat shape and lurk beneath it. To lurk, or to sit with paws tucked under him, or to roll onto his side, tail twitching, and gaze up through the illuminated boughs. 

The lights glimmered. Blown-glass balls and crystal lozenges dangled from the branches, just out of reach of an extended paw. Conviction grew in Credence that the tree was climbable, surely. Hadn’t Percy cast the charm to stand it upright? It would take more than the weight of one small cat to knock it down.

These temptations occupied him, not unpleasantly, until Percy came home.

He was working shorter hours this week, arriving home just after dark. When he came through the door of the apartment, coat sleeves damp with melted snow, Credence went trotting to meet him, tail held high. He liked to wind around the legs of Percy’s trousers, feel the outdoor chill that clung to him, put his paws on the black spats and pin one foot in place, like caught prey. 

“Watch the claws,” said Percy, amused, from high above. His left arm held a paper sack, one that smelled delectably of roast turkey. Credence watched it float toward the kitchen, and was hard pressed not to chase.

Later, when Percy had changed into his smoking jacket and poured himself a glass of--as he called it--Christmas cheer, he came into the sitting room and eyed the tree. 

“One of these days it’ll have to go. Can’t leave it up all winter.”

Credence froze in mid-crouch, then switched his tail. He slunk to squat under the tree, and Percy smiled into his drink.

“All right,” he said. "Not yet.“ 

*

What would become of the tree, wondered Credence, after they did take it down?

"We’ll Transfigure it,” said Percy, when Credence asked him over turkey dinner. “Into firewood. Or something else, if you’d rather, but firewood’s easy.”

In their lessons Credence had learned the principle: it was easier to Transfigure things into what they held potential to become. Sand into glass, cotton into muslin, an egg into a peeping chick. A tree into logs and tinder. Practical, he supposed, and thrifty. But part of him would be sad to see it burn.

Percy seemed to sense his reservations. "If you want to save a sprig, we can use it next year,“ he offered. "Grow a new tree out of that.”

 _Next year,_ he said. As if there were no question about it. In Percy’s mind there was already a next year, another Christmas, another tree. The confidence was itself a sort of magic. Not that Credence disbelieved him, exactly--infectious conviction was part of the charm--but his own view of the future was more nearsighted. He found it hard to peer beyond next week, tomorrow, the coming hour.

It was all too comfortable to be a cat, and not fret about any of it. But before he could change again after dinner, Percy said, “Got something to show you,” and vanished down the hall.

He padded back to the sitting room transformed, in panther shape. The stealth of his prowl was spoiled only by the collar around his neck: a red and green extravaganza, studded on all sides with golden bells. 

The bells jingled. The jingles were very loud. The panther halted by the fireplace and posed there, looking smug.

Credence burst out laughing. 

Percy’s furred ears flattened. He made a show of being majestically aggrieved. Even without the power of a Legilimens, Credence could hear him, clear as carillons: _What? Trying to tell me I can’t pull off the look?_

Credence folded down to sit beside him on the rug. "You’re a little late for Christmas," he murmured. He slid a hand into the thick black fur on Percy’s neck, fingers spreading, and tickled one of the bells until it chimed. "But don’t be sad. It’ll still be modish next year, I think.”

Percy crinkled his whiskers, and leaned to swipe his tongue over Credence’s cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> Belated happy holidays, dear readers, and best wishes for the new year.  
> <http://unicornmagic.tumblr.com>


End file.
